Kyrin Chronicles Book Two: The Black Hoard
by Th3Gh0stWr1ter
Summary: An escaped slave bearing a dark secret. A hidden corsair empire with a tragic history. A long-lost treasure that could save a kingdom. Past and present intertwine as Kyrin MacBurl and his adventure-seeking friends embark on a quest of unprecedented magnitude.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: This is my latest writing project, which I am thrilled to share with you all. It is the sequel to** _ **Kyrin: Son of a Warrior**_ **,** **which was completed in March 2013. This is where I left off. Enjoy.** _ **~The Ghost Writer**_

 **Kyrin Chronicles Book Two: The Black Hoard**

* * *

 _Behold! This tale I tell for all_

 _Young and old, great and small_

 _I speak of realms across the sea_

 _A land of pain and misery_

 _Built on blood and ancient gold_

 _Beating heart of immoral bold_

 _So go! And find what you desire_

 _In the shadow of the watchful fire._

* * *

 _ **Book One: An Adventure Long Overdue**_

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

The island of Werithor lay far out in the Western Sea, weeks away from the sandy coastline bordering Mossflower Country. Thick forests covered its surface in a lush patch of green, surrounding a dormant volcano which towered solemnly over the expansive treeline. From afar, the island seemed to be a gem floating in the emerald waters, unspoiled and untouched.

However, this façade quickly faded upon closer inspection, for Werithor served as the headquarters for a vast corsair network responsible for generations of terror on land and at sea. Dozens of well-concealed villages were scattered throughout the island, hidden by the trees and linked by multiple rivers and streams crisscrossing its interior. Returning crews moored at Werithor's single port to resupply and trade at these villages or drop off their plunder.

Maintaining Werithor's secrecy was paramount. Ships roamed the waters surrounding the island, ready to engage any vessel deemed hostile. Squads of guards patrolled the villages to enforce strict curfews which, if broken, meant instant death. The result was that Werithor had never appeared in any documents or maps. Its existence was completely unknown to the outside world.

Despite these measures, there was never any cause for discontent among the corsairs. The Emperor of Werithor always ensured that those who filled their quotas were handsomely paid in supplies as well as a cut of their own plunder. If any talk of dissent or rebellion ever surfaced, he would always have an army of loyal followers ready to silence the opposition.

Werithor's corsairs were as experienced as they were numerous. Crews comprised of battle-hardened individuals with seasons of experience under their belt. Additionally, not all corsairs were vermin; nobeast cared about that sort of thing. The philosophy was simple: If you did your job, you were useful. If not, you were killed. This kept the ranks clean of the rabble normally associated with the profession. United by greed, checked by discipline, and armed to the teeth with highly sophisticated ships and weaponry, they were the de facto rulers of the high seas.

These were just a few reasons why Tenzir Bloodblade felt uneasy as the remnants of his fleet neared the island. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a patch over his left eye, the fire-furred fox was Werithor's most powerful and ruthless captain, commanding over a thousand corsairs. Other captains respected him; younger corsairs wanted to be like him. But even a revered veteran like Tenzir found it difficult to ignore the growing pit in his stomach as his battered ships drifted into the harbor.

Guards and slaves alike fell silent as the caravan of ravaged vessels emerged from the heavy fog. In the lead was the _Bloodblade_ , Tenzir's own ship. Her hull was badly damaged, riddled with ugly, charred blotches. The ship's rear mast was broken in two, the top half dangling by a sliver of wood. What was left of her deep red sails twisted in the wind like cobwebs. The ships that followed were in similar states of ruin.

From somewhere further inland, a large conch sounded, signaling the fleet's arrival. Tenzir watched from _Bloodblade_ 's deck as two dozen blue-clad guards assembled on the pier, ready to receive him and his plunder. Blue was the official color of Werithor, and while the corsairs dressed down to avoid revealing their ties to the empire, the soldiers on the island were easily identifiable by their blue bandanas and padded tunics emblazoned with the Emperor's personal emblem: a wildcat's skull superimposed over the head of a trident.

"Rumskull," spoke Tenzir, not taking his eyes off the pier. His voice had a dull edge to it, like a rusty blade scraping along stone.

The ship's deck trembled as a burly, overweight weasel hurried over to do his master's bidding. He was dressed in ragged trousers tied off at the ankles, and his unruly beard glistened with pan grease and fishbones from past meals. Halting before Tenzir, he threw a salute with a meaty paw, speaking in a strange voice that sounded like he only breathed helium. "First mate Rumskull reportin' fer duty, Cap'n."

"Fetch me my formal cloak," the fox ordered.

Rumskull grabbed a passing crewbeast. "You 'eard the Cap'n!" he snarled, "get 'im 'is cloak! The formal 'un!" The rattled underling scampered off to do Tenzir's bidding.

 _Bloodblade'_ s crew fell silent, staring up in awe at the fortress now looming over them. Built into the side of the volcano using the mountain's own rock, the enormous black stone complex, with its winding battlements, jagged walls, and somber towers, cast a shadow over the twenty or so ships in the harbor.

As _Bloodblade_ docked, the crewbeast that Rumskull had dispatched earlier returned with a fine blue cloak, which the weasel promptly donned on his master. Although Tenzir personally detested the color, the fox knew he had to dress appropriately for the occasion.

"All set, Cap'n," came Rumskull's voice. "Yore ready ter go."

"Stay with the ship," Tenzir told him, as his subordinates laid out a ramp for him to walk on. Still adjusting the fabric of the cloak encircling his neck, Tenzir descended the ramp and onto the dock.

The squad of guards that had intercepted the fleet stood at attention as their leader stepped forward, saluting the veteran fox.

"Cap'n Tenzir. It's a surprise t' see ye, sir!"

"I wish to request an immediate audience with Emperor Valroth," rasped Tenzir.

"Of course, Cap'n," said the guard. "We just need ter undergo th' standard unloading protocols and…" his voice trailed off at the sight of Tenzir's single eye leering venomously at him.

" _Now_."

"R-right away, sir. My mistake." The guard nodded to his squad. "You two, bring Cap'n Tenzir up to th' palace. The rest of ye, search the ships."

The two soldiers he selected led Tenzir up a winding set of narrow stone stairs hidden in the cliffs. After a long climb they reached the palace gates: two giant slabs of carved oak reinforced with steel bindings sporting the same skull-and-trident found on the soldiers' uniforms. The pit in Tenzir's stomach never felt as deep as it did now.

One of Tenzir's escorts signaled to the guard standing on the ramparts above, who in turn signaled back and disappeared behind the wall. A few seconds later, there was a mechanical groan, and the massive doors swung inward.

Tenzir entered the fortress first, followed by the two guards. The soldiers in the fort immediately stopped what they were doing. A hubbub swept through the courtyard as they speculated about his sudden return. The fox ignored them, his eyes now fixated on the front face of the Emperor's palace, which was cleverly constructed directly into the volcano's flank.

The doors to the palace opened automatically, much like the fortress gates. The sounds of the outside world faded as the fox and his guards entered a dimly-lit but spacious cavern. This was the palace's main hall. Marble columns, embedded with precious stones, held up the jagged ceiling. Slaves of various species, supervised by more blue-clad guards, swept the floors and polished the collection of statues and treasures on display. Flanked by his escort, Tenzir walked across the hall to the staircase at the other end of the cavern, climbing several levels before reaching the top floor. Here lay a set of doors fitted with a pair gilded knockers shaped like wildcat heads, behind which the throne room was located.

The pit in Captain Tenzir's stomach was starting to feel more like a void.

One of the guards stepped forth. Approaching the doors, he lifted one of the knockers and knocked three times.

"Enter!" came a harsh voice from within.

The other guard opened the doors, bowing slightly. Tenzir took a deep breath before walking in, allowing the doors to close behind him. Unlike the lower levels, which were carved out of the volcano's interior, the Emperor's throne room was a perfectly rectangular chamber with granite walls, supported by two rows of bejeweled columns. Its tall ceiling amplified every step that Tenzir took. Looking at the floor, he could see his own reflection in the sparkling marble tiles. The side walls featured six massive arched windows each, which allowed light to flood in. Between each window hung a different life-sized portrait depicting none other than Emperor Valroth himself. The wildcat founder of Werithor had ruled for nearly a hundred seasons. Most of the corsairs sailing the Western Sea worked for him at this point. The paintings depicted Valroth in his younger years; gallant, sophisticated – even handsome, ignoring the fact that he had built his empire upon greed, conquest, and exploitation. Though the wildcat had no heir, he showed no signs of fading anytime soon. Everybeast marveled at his longevity, even the slaves.

The only other noticeable sign of life in the throne room was a young ottermaid named Ingle, who was diligently scrubbing the floors near the edge of the room. Tenzir recognized her, for he had seen her in here working during his past meetings with the Emperor. To the fox, she was a timid creature, dressed in a worn blue smock and waistband, the skull-and-trident branded on the back of her right paw as it was on all slaves.

Tenzir walked across the blue carpet that ran down the middle of the room. The Emperor's throne sat on a platform on the other end of the chamber, partially visible behind a pair of sheer curtains emblazoned with the ubiquitous skull-and-trident. The fabric obscured Valroth's features, but the silhouette of the enormous wildcat seated on his throne was unmistakable. In recent seasons, the ancient ruler had ceased making public appearances, prohibiting anybeast to lay eyes on him directly. But he still wielded absolute power, and he could still end the fox's life with a simple wave of his paw.

Stopping at the foot of the stairs leading up to the throne, the fox got down on one knee and bowed his head. "I have returned, Your Majesty," he announced.

"So you have," came Valroth's ominous reply from the figure behind the curtain. His voice, which echoed throughout the room, still carried the unmistakable imperiousness and vitality of the conqueror depicted in the portraits. "Tell me, Captain: why are you back so soon?"

Tenzir could detect the danger in the wildcat's voice. "We were ambushed, Your Majesty."

"Ambushed," repeated Valroth.

The fox began his tale. "For the first three days after we reached land, we stayed near the coast, but we found little there. The ice floes to the north have not yet melted, and the mountains to the east prevented us from marching further inland. So on the fourth day, we traveled south. That's when they set upon us."

"Who?" Valroth asked.

"Hares, Your Majesty. Hundreds of them, uniformed and well-armed. They fought harder than any foe we had ever seen. We made our stand, but they were too many. As we retreated, they started attacking our ships with fire arrows, sinking one and damaging the rest."

The Emperor's tone was icy. "So the expedition was a failure."

"We did capture sixteen locals, Your Majesty," Tenzir offered.

"I don't need more slaves, Captain," the wildcat growled. "I. Need. Gold."

The fox kept his head bowed. "I understand, Your Majesty."

An uncomfortable silence ensued, punctuated only by the faint squeak of marble tiles being polished. Unbeknownst to the pair, Ingle had been quietly eavesdropping on their conversation the entire time.

Valroth finally spoke. "Under normal circumstances I'd have you slain. However, a troubling new development means that – for now – you get to live."

Tenzir felt relief wash through his body as Valroth continued.

"Twelve days ago, a slave somehow managed to find a way out of the fortress, steal a boat and provisions, and escape the island."

Ingle nearly dropped the rag she was holding. She knew of the slave they were talking about: a kindly yet somewhat eccentric old mouseslave named Plinn who lived in the same compound as Ingle did. The younger slaves loved his stories about faraway lands, hope, and freedom. The ottermaid continued to scrub the floors, trying to be as quiet as possible.

Tenzir, too, was incredulous that a slave even got as far as outside the fortress walls unsupervised, but held his tongue as Valroth continued.

"His fellow slaves, under interrogation, revealed that he was headed toward Salamandastron, located on the western shores of Mossflower Country. It is a fortress much like this one; carved from a volcano, manned by hare warriors under the command of badgers."

"Those must be the same hares that engaged my forces," deduced the fox.

"If the slave has reached Salamandastron, then he will have informed them about Werithor's existence. My entire empire is at risk."

Although Tenzir doubted that the fugitive survived the journey, he was not about to argue. Instead, an idea to redeem himself was beginning to form in the fox's mind. "The mountain seems to safeguard the coasts further south, Your Majesty," he said. "It seems that there is much wealth in the region, considering the presence of a military stronghold."

"Yes," mused Valroth, "a mountain like Salamandastron would undoubtedly be filled with priceless treasures, as would the settlements further inland."

"And conquering these regions would expand Your Majesty's empire onto the continent," suggested Tenzir.

"So it would seem," concurred the wildcat.

Ingle's heart was racing from all the new information. The guards had said that Plinn had been quarantined due to illness. But now the truth was out that he had escaped alone from a fortress previously believed to be impregnable. And now, for the first time, the ottermaid was hearing about Werithor's corsairs _losing_ a battle. Suddenly, the old mouse's tales of freedom didn't seem so farfetched.

The fox gazed up at the veiled throne. "I implore Your Majesty to let me exact revenge upon these hares."

"And you shall," Valroth replied. "As soon as your fleet is ready to sail again, you are to take all the ships and corsairs under your command to Salamandastron. Retrieve the slave and silence all who have heard his story. Wipe the mountain off the map."

"The mountain shall fall, and we shall find Your Majesty's slave, alive or dead," answered Tenzir, knowing full well that these were not so much promises as they were terms for his survival.

The Emperor's tone became threatening once more. "Fail me again, Captain, and your corpse will be thrown to the gulls. Now get out of my sight."

Tenzir bowed low. "I live only to serve Werithor!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Three weeks had passed since Tenzir Bloodblade set out for Salamandastron. Summer was drawing near, evidenced by the longer days and warmer weather. Yet life on Werithor went on as usual, unaware of the passage of time. Nowhere was this monotony felt more than among the thousands of slaves who lived on the island, laboring away in its forges, shipyards, and fields.

The five hundred or so slaves assigned to the Emperor's fortress were all housed inside a large compound on the stronghold's north side, which was walled off from the rest of the courtyard by a wooden palisade. Here they ate, slept, and lived out their lives under watch from the guards, leaving the enclosure only to work.

Day had yet to break over Werithor. All was quiet in the compound, save for the communal pump creaking in the center of the grounds. Soldiers waited for sunrise from atop several wooden watchtowers overlooking four rows of identical longhouses. These were raised slightly out of the mud by stout ash stilts, and designated as "Quarters" One through Twenty.

Quarter Five was where Ingle slept. But like most slaves in the compound, the ottermaid lay awake on the straw pallet which served as her bed, waiting for the day to begin. It was better not to be asleep when the overseers came barging in; the scars on Ingle's back attested to this much. All the slaves slept in two rows of metal bunks lined up against opposite walls of the Quarter, military-style. A draft whispered through the cabin's single leaky glass window, making Ingle shiver. Once again she had kicked off her blanket sometime during the night, and the short chains shackling the ottermaid to the bedframe prevented her from walking over and picking it up.

Ingle curled into a ball, covering herself with her rudder as she tried to imagine a life beyond Werithor's shores. For three weeks she had snuck furtive glances around the fortress, looking for any clue as to how Plinn may have escaped. Though unsuccessful, the ottermaid was not deterred, for the ancient mouse's escape had galvanized something within Ingle that she didn't realize she had.

Turning on her side, she found herself staring across the room at Plinn's empty bunk, which sat closest the doorway. Ingle knew it would likely be filled soon by a slave brought up from the surrounding villages. New arrivals to the island had steadily dwindled over time, forcing the empire to transfer slaves from post to post. Still, Plinn had been a part of Quarter Five as long as anybeast could remember. Being part of the first batch of slaves brought to Werithor, the mouse was as old as the empire itself. Thus it was no surprise that, in the weeks leading up to Plinn's breakout, the others paid no heed to his senile utterings of a single word: "Salamandastron!"

The word meant nothing to anybeast in Quarter Five, both then and now. As far as Ingle was concerned, she was the only slave who knew what really happened.

The bunk directly above the ottermaid creaked, followed by a voice she knew too well.

"Ingle, are you awake?"

"Aye," Ingle nodded. "Did you sleep well, Haida?"

"Like a flea on a rat's back," came the mousemaid's reply, and the two shared a quiet chuckle. Ingle was always grateful for the short time before sunrise where the two could socialize. It kept her sane amidst all this madness.

From atop her bunk, Haida sighed. "Things've gotten quiet without old Plinn around. I could really use one of his stories right now."

Ingle did not take her eyes off of Plinn's bunk. "I miss him too. I hope he's in a better place."

Inwardly, the ottermaid was dying to tell her best friend the truth, but there was little either of them could do with the information at the moment. Telling the ebullient, cream-furred mousemaid would also likely endanger both their lives. One never knew who could be listening.

Their conversation was cut short as the door to Quarter Five was kicked open with a bang. "Rise an' shine, youse lot!" yelled a familiar, hated voice.

The longhouse came alive instantly. Chains rattled as the slaves sat up in their beds in various states of wakefulness. A score of guards marched in, headed by Dirgetooth, Quarter Five's cruel overseer. The huge, tattooed stoat stood a full head taller than his brethren, his dirty, unkempt brown fur only emphasizing his crazed look. The bracelets and rings on his arms and legs jangled as he walked, reverberating around the cabin.

Conch horns outside blared three times in succession, signaling the start of a new day. The slaves were unchained from their beds and ushered into two rows facing each other, where they were shackled to one another by their wrists and ankles. As always, Ingle was chained next to Haida, who quietly grasped the ottermaid's paw with her own.

Dirgetooth grinned evilly, baring his crooked fangs at the beasts on either side of him. "Good mornin', sleepy'eads," he teased in an almost singsong voice.

When nobeast answered, the stoat unfurled his whip. "I says _good mornin'_ ," he repeated, his voice a lot more ominous this time.

"Good morning, sir," chorused the slaves.

"Now then, that's more like it," growled the stoat. He nodded toward his squad. "Give 'em a soak."

Ingle winced as she and the other slaves were crudely doused with cold water and sprinkled with soap flakes. They stood shivering before the guards as the overseer, ignoring their plight, announced: "We gots a new transfer today, which means you lot gots a new friend."

Ingle watched as the guards dragged in a pygmy shrew, whose sleek fur was blacker than any she had ever seen. The tiny creature continuously bit and kicked at his captors, despite the chains that bound his limbs.

"You'll take 'is bunk!" one the guards snarled, pointing to Plinn's old spot in the corner. "Now get in line!"

Dirgetooth watched as the guards shackled the shrewslave to the others with chains that dwarfed his undersized footpaws. "Yore a real nasty one, ain't ye? Well, I'll breaks ye like I breaks the rest of 'em. You'll be beggin' me to kill ye by the time this season's over."

The fearless shrew glared hatefully at the overseer, his beady eyes burning with defiance. Ingle shuddered, imagining what this creature would do if set loose upon his captors.

Dirgetooth turned his attention to some of the weaker creatures, singling out a small squirrel who was audibly shivering. Ingle recognized the slave: he had been transferred from the surrounding villages last week. Dressed in an oversized tunic which was completely soaked from the "bath" he had been given earlier, the poor creature now stood, drenched to the bone as he continued to shake. In a second, Dirgetooth was in the slave's face, brandishing his whip.

"Oi, you there! Wot're ye blubberin' about?"

The squirrel's chains rattled almost as loudly as his teeth. "I-I'm c-c-cold, s-sir."

Dirgetooth gestured around him cruelly. "Yore cold, eh? I don't sees anybeast else complainin'! Youse lot gots warm beds, a roof over your 'eads, an' two meals a day, so you better shut yore gob afore I _really_ gives you somethin' to complain about!"

The poor slave broke down crying. "Please, sir," he wailed, "I don't b-belong here! I'm a f-fieldslave! I'm n-not meant for this, please – "

"Right, that's it!" shouted Dirgetooth, motioning for his underlings to help him. "Clear this area so I can teaches this ingrate a lesson!"

Two guards spread the slaves as far away from either side of the weeping squirrel as their chains would let them, making room for the stoat to deliver his punishment. The slaves averted their eyes as Dirgetooth unfurled his whip. They knew what was coming.

 _SWISH!_ _CRACK!_

The heavy rawhide braid lashed out, wrapping around the squirrel's left shoulder. The victim screeched in pain as Dirgetooth yanked hard on the whip, dragging him to the ground. As the poor creature struggled to rise, he was felled by a succession of lashes to his back and skull that the stoat delivered with deadly accuracy.

Ingle bowed her head, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to block out the slave's agonized screams as the stoat thrashed away mercilessly at his unprotected body. She could feel Haida's paw now tightening around her own like a vice. The ottermaid knew that with Dirgetooth, every whipping was a potential execution. She prayed the poor creature would pass out quickly.

Guard and slave alike winced as a particularly well-landed hit was met with the gruesome sound of bones breaking. The screaming stopped instantly. Breathing heavily, Dirgetooth stepped away from the pitiful carcass lying at his footpaws. An eerie silence hung in the air as the stoat cast his glare around the room, his face and tunic now spattered with blood. "Because I 'ad to gets me paws dirty dealin' wid this filth, youse lot gets t' miss breakfast this mornin'. Now, anybeast else got summat they wants t' cry about?"

The slaves kept their eyes glued to the floor. Nobeast dared make a sound.

"Good," growled the stoat, motioning to the guards to dispose of the body. "Split these slaves up and send 'em off t' work. Move!"

Ingle took one last look at the overseer's underlings callously tossing the bleeding bundle outside before she herself was unshackled from the other slaves and led out of the cabin towards the fortress. She almost didn't feel the cold spear prodding her back and the guard barking at her to move her useless hide. The ottermaid couldn't even cry. All she knew was that she had to get out of there.

* * *

The morning sun shone through the open windows of Valroth's chamber. The calls of seabirds mingled with the sounds of the fortress below, as corsair and slave alike went about their daily toil.

Ingle stood by the sheer blue curtains, holding a large clay jug. Laid out at her footpaws were large baskets filled with Valroth's favorite breakfast: hard-boiled turtle eggs, fresh grapes, and a whole roasted quail cooked and seasoned to perfection. Everything looked and smelled divine, especially since Ingle had not eaten. However, the horror of what had transpired back at the compound remained fresh on the ottermaid's mind, pushing away any thought of food.

"Slave, pour my wine!"

The Emperor's mailed paw, holding a bejeweled goblet, emerged from beneath the cloth which hid him from the rest of the world. As she had done a thousand times before, Ingle gingerly tipped the heavy vessel downward, carefully pouring the purple liquid into Valroth's cup. After this was done, she got to work preparing the eggs just the way the ruler liked them, by cutting them into thin slices using the tiny knife contained in the basket.

Valroth's paw emerged again, selecting the quail and the basket of now-sliced turtle eggs. Trying to ignore the bone-crunching sounds now emanating from behind the curtain, Ingle picked up the wine jug and studied it. It was decorated all around with paintings of past conquests. She could make out images of vermin – those were clearly corsairs – depicted slaughtering a plethora of mice, squirrels, shrews, moles, and otters in some open meadow. There was also some text scrawled on the vessel. The ottermaid, while illiterate, was fairly certain that the writing described one of Valroth's past conquests.

Although Ingle had studied that jug down to the very last detail in her many seasons as Valroth's personal slave, these pictures had started to take on new meaning ever since she had learned of Plinn's escape. For the first time in her young life, the ottermaid felt angry viewing these pictures; at seeing her likeness being so cruelly subjugated by the corsairs. But seeing these violent images also inspired her. If there was a world outside of this horrible island that innocent beasts could be torn away from, then there was a world they could escape to.

One day, she thought, maybe this epic battle could be reenacted on the island; only her side would be winning.

A knock at the door returned the ottermaid to reality. The obscene noises from behind the curtain stopped as the Emperor looked up from his food.

"Enter!" commanded Valroth.

A ratguard came in, bowing low. "I apologize for interrupting your breakfast, Your Majesty, but Nadira wishes to see you."

"Tell her that I do not wish for my breakfast to be disturbed," Valroth said, in a dangerously measured tone of voice.

The guard swallowed. "She won't leave until she's 'ad an audience with you, my lord."

Ingle jumped at the sound of the goblet smashing on the floor. "Then _make_ her leave, you idiot!"

Terrified, the guard ran back to the doors, only to bowled over by a pitch-black form sweeping soundlessly across the floorstones.

"How dare you enter without my permission?!" roared Valroth.

The seer known as Nadira stopped at the foot of Valroth's throne. "Once you've heard what I have to say you'll be glad I told you this soon," she hissed, her sibilant voice dissipating throughout the hall.

Ingle shrank into the shadows cast by Valroth's throne, trying to attract as little attention as possible. She had seen Nadira roaming the fortress grounds countless times before, and knew that the vixen lived in a tiny hut on the other end of the courtyard. Even so, the vixen's ghostly presence and wraithlike movements never ceased to terrify her.

"What false prophecies have you been cooking up of late?" snarled the irate wildcat.

Nadira removed her hood. She was an ancient, snaggle-toothed vixen. Thinning, discolored fur clung to her sagging skin, which in turn seemed to cling to her bony features. Her single green eye seemed to bore through the curtains that obscured the Emperor, while her other eye, a sliver of white pupil suspended in a murky gray iris, rolled around in its socket. "I have seen the future. His Majesty must leave this island immediately, or face certain death."

The thin curtains could not contain the wildcat's laughter, which boomed throughout the hall. "Tell me, Nadira, does my fortress look like it can be breached to you? Is there anybeast who has challenged Werithor and lived?"

"It is not the threat of an outside invasion his Majesty must fear!" rasped Nadira, lifting a shaking paw toward the ceiling. "The fire mountain, whose stone makes up the very walls of this palace, has come alive again."

The Emperor's figure shifted lazily behind the curtain. "I see no evidence of this."

"There shall be very little foreshadowing. But soon, a black cloud shall consume the sky. The very gates of Hell will burst, burying this island and all those who foolishly remain."

"How long, seer?" challenged the wildcat.

Nadira seemed to falter. "My shells do not foretell the exact passage of time, but Your Majesty _must_ listen – "

" _If_ there is no firm indication if or when the volcano shall erupt, then I shall not leave," Valroth proclaimed.

Ingle could hear the growing alarm in Nadira's trembling voice. "I have served Werithor from the start, Your Majesty. I would never lie about my omens!"

The Emperor's tone was impassive. "And yet, you failed to foretell that the island's fortunes would dwindle in my lifetime. You failed to foretell that an old mouse would escape the fortress. Why should I believe you now?"

The vixen practically threw herself on the steps of Valroth's throne. "If we do not leave this island we will all die! My lord, you must – "

 _"ENOUGH!"_

Nadira dove for cover as the livid wildcat kicked over the baskets of food, sending his breakfast splattering all around her, roaring:

"I built this empire from nothing, and I will not surrender it based the word of failed soothsayers! Nobeast leaves! Do you hear me, vixen? _Nobeast leaves!_ Guards!"

The doors burst open and four blue-clad soldiers stormed in. "Get everybeast out of this room!" Valroth practically shrieked from behind the curtain. "Get them out, _now_!"

Ingle felt two pairs of rough arms seize her. "You 'eard 'is Majesty. Move!"

As she was frogmarched out of the throne room alongside Nadira, Ingle felt something hard press against her lower back. It took another second for her to realize what was causing this sensation.

The knife, which she had used to prepare Valroth's breakfast, was tucked away beneath her sash.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 _Extract from the records of Redwall Abbey._

 _Summer is here! The longer days and sunny weather have provided Redwallers with much time to laugh, play, or work. For many of us, it is the latter. The last winter was especially harsh on the building's architecture. As soon as it was warm enough again, scores of volunteers have been working around the clock to repair the damage done._

 _My family has been busy as well. Father is preparing my younger brother, Kyrin, to succeed him as Abbey Warrior. Kyrin is very passionate about upholding Martin the Warrior's legacy, and loves to read about Martin's life and accomplishments in his spare time. His girlfriend, Mena, works in the Infirmary, learning the ways of a healer with my mother, Sister Armel. I should show you some of their books on herbs – I wouldn't be surprised if they documented every last plant in the world! As for me, I've been stuck inside the Gatehouse all spring. We've just built several new bookcases to accommodate our ever-expanding collection of records, and it's my job to catalog all these loose volumes and parchments. I think my job would go a lot faster if it weren't for all the fascinating history I keep coming across while cleaning. Don't blame me – I like to read!_

 _The Nameday Feast is tonight, but we still haven't settled on a name for the upcoming season, thanks to an ongoing wager between Abbot Cyrus and Skipper. You see, the ottercrew have been building a bridge across the Abbey Pond. The community loves this idea, but the Abbot thinks it's a waste of time and resources. He's threatened to shut the project down several times, citing numerous missed deadlines as the cause. Skipper claims that he had provided Abbot Cyrus with estimated dates of completion for every step of the project before construction even began, accusing the Abbot of ignoring their timetable and imposing his own. Anyway, the two kept butting heads over the issue, so Skipper proposed an interesting challenge: if the ottercrew can complete the bridge by tonight's feast, then Abbot Cyrus will officially name the season the Summer of the Mistaken Hedgehog (instead of the Summer of the Diligent Paws, which he intended). If they can't finish, they'll scrap the project for good. Personally, I have faith in Skipper and his crew. From what I've seen and heard, they seem to be way ahead of their own schedule, if not the Abbot's. The Redwallers are all very eager to see how this plays out. Either way, one of them will be apologizing profusely to the other in a few hours._

 _Well, tea time is coming to a close and there are still stacks of records to attend to. I'll see you all at supper!_

 _Melanda MacBurl, Recorder at Redwall Abbey in Mossflower Country._

* * *

 _SWISH! CLANG!_

The peaceful atmosphere that presided over Redwall Abbey was punctuated by the sound of clashing steel blades, which echoed off the ancient sandstone walls. As repair crews, farmers, and other residents went about their daily tasks, two creatures dueled fiercely on the Abbey Lawns, their bodies scarlet blurs in the afternoon light. The elaborate, deadly dance halted momentarily as the pair locked blades, then resumed as they split apart, circling one another, each trying to predict the other's next move.

Rakkety Tam MacBurl, current Champion of Redwall, leveled his broadsword at his adversary. "Your technique has improved, Kyrin."

Kyrin MacBurl smiled dangerously as he brandished the Sword of Martin. "I learned from the best, father." He lunged, driving the older squirrel back with a flurry of attacks.

Tam, an experienced fighter hailing from the Northern Border, parried his son's assault with ease. "Follow through your attacks," he instructed, fending off a slash to his midsection. "Remember, each stroke has a beginning, middle, an' end. Aggression without finesse equals wasted energy. Better! Now, watch out…"

Kyrin narrowly dodged a strike aimed at his neck. "Had me distracted with all that talking," he said, going on the offensive once more.

Tam continued to block Kyrin's attacks. "You distracted yourself with thinkin', young one. Always watch for surprises." With a flick of his wrist, the Border Warrior expertly redirected a particularly hard swing from Kyrin, sending the latter reeling. The champion-in-training, however, used the momentum to spin away gracefully, knocking away a jab from his father as he did so.

Now the pair began circling each other once more. Kyrin's paws tightened around the handle of his weapon. "Nice try, old one, but I know all your tricks."

Tam's eyes stayed locked on his son's. "Feeling confident, are we?"

Kyrin adjusted his footing. "Aye, in fact I think I'm ready for some _real_ challenges!" The Sword of Martin flashed in the sun as he attacked.

"Defeating Orak the Assassin wasn't enough?" Tam asked, deflecting his son's strikes in turn.

Kyrin cut downward. "That was four seasons ago."

Tam blocked the strike, countering with his own. "I seem to recall ye got pretty sliced up in that encounter."

"I've gotten better since then," Kyrin replied, parrying.

Father and son twirled in opposite directions, their blades meeting with such force that sparks flew from them, landing among the grass. "True warriors don't go out looking for trouble," Tam admonished.

"They also don't sit at home waiting for adventure," Kyrin replied.

"So it's adventure ye want?" Tam asked, bringing his sword around in preparation for another strike.

Kyrin predicted the maneuver. Moving away from Tam's blade, he pressed his attack, using the superior range of Martin's sword to his advantage. "I want to see the world and help others, just like Martin the Warrior did."

Tam parried and dodged, looking for an opportunity to close the gap. "Martin hung up his blade and became a mouse of peace. Perhaps you missed that in your readings."

Kyrin was careful to not give his father an opening. "Only after a lifetime of fighting for justice."

"One day you'll realize that a warrior is not defined by his sword, but by his spirit," said Tam, subtly widening the distance between them.

"I'm spirited," Kyrin protested. He accidentally swung too hard and too short. His blade sliced thin air, leaving the younger squirrel's flank exposed.

Tam took the opportunity to move in. In an instant Kyrin found himself off balance and being driven back. Stumbling, he fell on one knee, barely catching Tam's blade with his own.

The Border Warrior smiled. "You're restless."

"I'll have your teachings to guide me," Kyrin replied, twisting the Sword of Martin so that the blade of Tam's claymore came to rest at its hilt.

Tam's eyes gave no indication of what he was going to do next. "Well, then the next lesson is for you to learn your duty here at Redwall. Besides – " in one sudden move, the veteran fighter slid his blade forward, locking hilts with Kyrin. With a simple twist of his arm, Tam wrestled away his son's blade. " – I didn't teach you _everything_."

Kyrin wiped sweat off his brow, shaking his head at being disarmed.

Tam smiled roguishly, tossing him back his weapon. "So, let's get learnin', shall we?"

* * *

Evening couldn't come fast enough. After the last of the day's work was done, every Redwaller, from the youngest babe to the most ancient elder, flocked to the Great Hall. Spirited laughter and amicable chatter floated in the air alongside brightly-colored festoons that crisscrossed above the revelers. Golden sunlight flooded through the open doors and stained-glass windows. Martin the Warrior, as depicted on the venerated tapestry hanging on the wall, presided over the happy scene.

Kyrin sat with his family, waiting for the feast to begin. The young squirrel's stomach growled as he stared at the tables piled high with the most mouthwatering delicacies one could imagine: among them, golden-crusted onion-and-leek turnovers fresh out of the oven, pies and pastries garnished with fresh fruit and fluffy meadowcream, endless flagons of cordial and ale, and two enormous steamed trouts.

Around him, other abbeydwellers seemed to be equally transfixed.

"Wow, this food looks amazing!"

"Burr, oi carn't wait t' get me paws on some zoop!"

"Soup? My friend, you 'aven't tried the finer things in life. Now steamed trout garnished with leeks and watercress – _that's_ t' die for!"

Cyrus, Abbot of Redwall, clinked a spoon against his glass. The Great Hall fell silent, and all eyes turned toward the bespectacled old hedgehog whose graying quills stuck out over his plain green habit. "Happy Nameday, friends. Please join me in saying grace."

The Redwallers bowed their heads as the Abbot recited:

"Mother Nature, bless the loam

Upon which we have built our home

May seasons smile and fortune grace

The four walls of this hallowed space

For it is here that we belong

Among comfort, friendship, food, and song

So let us feast, one and all

At the tables of Redwall!"

As the feastgoers opened their eyes, the Abbot spoke again. "Before we start I have a few announcements to make." He gestured toward the Kitchens. "First of all, I would like to thank Friar Tobel and his staff for preparing this marvelous feast."

Shouts of "hear, hear!" and other exaltations of approval sounded as Tobel, a pudgy vole clad in a dirty apron, appeared at the doorway and bowed, his toque falling off in the process.

"Next, all Redwallers wishing to dine outside may do so. Chairs have been set up on the Lawns, although individuals may bring extra seating as needed. Given tonight's festivities, bedtime will be pushed back one hour."

The Dibbuns (Redwall's term for young ones) hooted and hollered with joy.

The Abbot paused, as if reluctant to continue. "And finally, I'm sure you want to hear about the bridge."

The Redwallers held their breath.

Abbot Cyrus cast a sore eye over to the creature sitting at the end of his table. "I'll let you take it from here, Mr. Skipper."

The bare-chested otter stood up, his baritone voice booming throughout the hall. "I'll make this short an' sweet, friends. As of tonight's feast, the bridge has been completed!"

The Great Hall burst into cheers and applause as Skipper motioned to his otters to bow. "Me an' the ottercrew would like to thank each an' every one of ye for yore undyin' support. There'll be a ribbon-cutting ceremony bright an' early tomorrow. Don't miss out!"

As the fanfare died down, the otter winked at Abbot Cyrus. "Something ye want to say, Father Abbot?"

The old hedgehog turned red. "Do I really have to?"

"Aye, 'twas part of our agreement, remember?"

A chuckle rippled through the audience.

"Very well," sighed the Abbot. "In honor of our wager, I, Abbot Cyrus, do officially declare this season to be named the Summer of the Mistaken Hedgehog."

As the hall reignited with thunderous laughter, the humiliated Abbey leader turned to Skipper. "And I offer _you_ , old friend, my humblest apologies, and ask for your forgiveness."

Skipper rustled the old one's quills with a meaty paw. "Haharr, nothing to worry about, Father Abbot. I could never stay mad at you. An' I know how much yore name meant to ye, so consider this a token of our friendship..." Raising his goblet, the otter proclaimed: "To Abbot Cyrus, an' to the Summer of the Diligent Paws!"

As the Redwallers cheered, one of Skipper's otters ran up, bearing a hefty bronze plaque, which Skipper intercepted. "We made this to pin up on the bridge, Father Abbot. You didn't think I'd let ye get off that easy, did ye?"

The Redwallers fell over laughing at the plaque, which read:

BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED OTTERS

DEDICATED TO CYRUS, ABBOT OF REDWALL

"I guess I deserved that," laughed the hedgehog. Holding up the sign with Skipper, he announced: "Now that we're all in good spirits, let the Nameday Feast begin!"

Like a runner at the starting line, Kyrin immediately loaded up his trencher and began demolishing his mountain of food.

"For seasons' sake, slow down, son," Tam chuckled.

"Ha, th' wee lad's hungry. Can ye noo see that, Tam?" Wild Doogy Plumm, seated next to his longtime best friend, guffawed. Like the Border Warrior, the Highlander's fur was starting to go gray.

"Our little warrior has been training hard," winked Melanda, ruffling Kyrin's headfur affectionately. She was five seasons older than Kyrin, and never missed a chance to make it clear he was her younger brother and would always be. "Knowing Dad, this is Kyrin's first meal of the day."

Sister Armel, seated to Tam's right, turned to her mate in horror. "Tam!" she exclaimed, "I know you and Kyrin like to train, but for seasons' sake, you can't make him skip meals! Look how thin he is already!"

"It's alright, Mother. I had a late breakfast," Kyrin assured her.

"He needs to _lose_ weight if ye ask me, love," Tam remarked, munching on a deep-fried pasty practically bursting at the seams with gravy.

Armel rolled her eyes. _"You_ need to lose weight, you great bully! I saw you sneaking those extra scones during tea time! Here, Kyrin, take some more food..."

While Armel tipped the contents of her trencher onto Kyrin's (much to the latter's embarrassment), Tam looked across the table at his son. "We have lots to do this season. I was thinkin' it would be a good time to go over your footwork."

Kyrin stopped eating for a moment. "Actually, father, I was wondering if I could leave the Abbey this summer."

The older squirrel raised his eyebrows. "Where're you going?"

Kyrin faltered, "I-I don't know yet…anywhere but here, really."

Tam frowned. "You have training, Kyrin."

"I know, but – "

"What if the Abbey comes under attack while you're gone?"

Kyrin wondered if Tam had really been listening to their conversation that afternoon. "Father, Redwall's been at peace for over four seasons. Nothing's going to happen if I leave."

Tam's face was stern. "I made my stance clear earlier today. Your duty is to Redwall Abbey now. No more runnin' off whenever you please." He watched as Kyrin put down his fork, sulking. "I know you're upset, but my word is final. Unless Martin the Warrior himself comes calling, you're staying here."

Armel placed a gentle paw on her mate's arm. "Our son has had a long day, dear. I think I saw your friends go outside just a little while ago, Kyrin. You should join them."

"Gladly," Kyrin said, shooting Tam a resentful look as he got up. "Hope you've finished sorting those records, Melanda. I'll be reading them when I'm stuck inside Redwall all season."

* * *

The sky was a blend of colors both fiery and mellow as the sun sank below the Mossflower treeline. A cool breeze swept through the land as the soft cooing of distance birds signified the end of the first day of summer.

At Redwall Abbey, however, the Nameday Feast was in full swing, spilling out of the Great Hall and onto the Abbey Lawns. Redwallers sat on the grass, laughing and joking as they cooled their footpaws in the evening air, while excited Dibbuns ran by, gleefully chasing after one another.

A group of otters, armed with mandolins, ottercordions, and a pawdrum, had taken center stage in the middle of the Lawns. Excited Redwallers got up to dance as the musicians launched into an extremely fast ditty.

"Oh, what good's an otter if he can't sing

The fish right out a stream?

Or strum a wildcat's whiskers

And dance O so supreme?

Well, I got my vittles, and I got my holt,

And a pretty maid by my side

But most of all I've got this drum

Let's hear it, don't be shy!"

The audience cheered as the otter playing the pawdrum launched into a brief but dexterous solo. The song repeated several times, showcasing a different musician's talents at the end of each verse, ending to thunderous applause.

The song did little to cheer Kyrin up. As the ensemble started playing their next number, he wandered glumly around the courtyard, searching for his friends.

Mena, Firulan, and Gry Riverpaw were sitting in a circle on the grass, eating and conversing. Gry spotted the young squirrel first. "Kyrin, over here, mate!" he called, waving a paw.

The young warrior's sullen spirits temporarily lifted at the sight of his friends. He hurried over to them, embracing Gry in a friendly hug. "Good to see you. Congratulations on completing the bridge in time!"

The burly otter chuckled as he hugged Kyrin back. "Ah, 'twas nothing, just doin' wot we do best."

Firulan, a small but pudgy wood mouse whose too-large straw hat often obscured his too-large head, laughed. "Heeheehee, did ye see the look on the Abbot's face when he 'ad to name the season 'Summer of the Mistaken Hedgehog'? An' when he was presented with that plaque?"

Kyrin grinned. "Aye, I've never seen anybeast turn that red."

"Redder than a beet! Hahahahaha!" Firulan hooted.

Kyrin set his trencher down on the grass, turning his attention to the pretty squirrelmaid next to him. "And how are _you,_ my lady?"

Mena yawned and laid her head on Kyrin's shoulder. "I'm exhausted. Plikkin's cough stopped last night, but not before he passed it on to Libbie, Derk, and young Springo. Your mother and I were up all night trying to stop a miniature epidemic from breaking out."

Kyrin brushed some headfur out of her eyes. "You should go to bed. Did you eat yet?"

Mena looked up at him and smiled. "I did. I might turn in soon. I just wanted to see you first."

"Well, here I am," said Kyrin, kissing her gently. "You're the best."

"I know," said Mena, kissing him back.

"Aye, we could all use a break." Gry said, wiping sweat off his brow as he swallowed a spicy spoonful of shrimp n' hotroot soup. "We've all just been workin' or trainin' since spring."

Firulan stretched his limbs and lay back on the grass. "I'm with ye, mate. I've been workin' too hard."

"Must be hard doing nothing," Kyrin remarked.

"A whole _lot_ o' nothin', if ye please," Firulan corrected, pulling his hat over his face. "Mm, those blackberry scones sure are good…"

Mena suddenly pulled away from her boyfriend's shoulder. "Ouch! Kyrin, your sword belt is chafing me."

"Aye, mate, don't ye ever put that sword down?" Gry asked.

"What do you mean?" Kyrin asked, puzzled.

"The sword! You're still wearing it!" Mena exclaimed.

Kyrin suddenly became aware of the Sword of Martin still strapped to his back. "Oh! Sorry, I guess I had this thing on for so long today that I forgot to take it off."

"Here, let me help you," said the squirrelmaid, undoing Kyrin's sword belt for him. "Sometimes I worry about how hard you train."

"Ahh, Kyrin's just lookin' out for another vermin invasion," Firulan joked, his voice muffled by his hat. "That's why 'e always carries that thing around."

Kyrin glared at the dozing mouse. "This 'thing' is Martin's legacy and Redwall's fate. I'll never part with it, just like how you never part with food."

Mena placed the sword on the grass. "Well, at least remember to take it off when you eat. Gry's right: we all need a break."

Kyrin's face fell as he remembered his father's words. "I wish."

Firulan sat up instantly. "What's wrong, mate?"

The young squirrel shook his head. "It's my father. He wants me to stay at the Abbey this summer and train."

"C'mon, that's ridiculous! Yore plenty trained already!" Firulan protested.

"Not according to him, I'm not," Kyrin groused. "Apparently, when I signed on to be Abbey Warrior, I also signed on to be a homebody for the rest of my life."

"I agree; that's silly. No warrior came to be by not going anywhere," said Mena.

"That's what I said!" Kyrin exclaimed. "But apparently Redwall needs protecting, so I can't just run off."

"Well, I'll be around," Mena offered. "Now that it's summer we can spend more time together."

"I'll be around too," said Gry. "As far as I know the ottercrew's takin' it easy this season."

"We should all just run away from here," Firulan suggested. "And don't ye pull that 'duty' excuse on me, Kyrin. I'll wrap ye up in a big blanket an' smuggle ye out of Redwall if I have to."

Kyrin laughed. "Please do. It'll be the most excitement I've had in ages…"

Dusk gave way to night. Stars emerged and fireflies danced across the cooling grass. Many feastgoers had already gone inside. Lanterns were brought out onto the Lawns to provide light for those still about. Gradually, the sounds of rejoicing died down, overtaken by the sounds of nighttime Mossflower.

The four friends continued to talk and laugh under the stars. Little did they know that adventure would soon come knocking.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Kyrin was woken up sometime later that night by faint shouts coming from the abbey courtyard. In an instant, the champion-in-training was out of bed, sticking his head out the window in an effort to trace the commotion. Although it was pitch dark outside, the noises seemed to be coming from the south side of the building.

The young squirrel quickly got dressed, grabbing the Sword of Martin leaning against his bedpost before sprinting out the bedroom. He was halfway down the dormitory wing when Mena emerged from her room, still in her nightgown.

"Did you hear it too?" the squirrelmaid asked.

Kyrin was surprised she was awake. "Aye, I think somebeast's trying to break in through the south gate."

Mena unfurled her sling. "Let's go investigate."

"I'll handle it. You go back to sleep."

She shook her head. "I'm coming with you."

"Alright, but keep your voice down," Kyrin said. He grabbed two torches off the wall, handing her one. Together, they crept down the stairs and through the Great Hall. The young squirrel's paws were sweating as he pushed open one of the solid oaken doors leading outside, causing a resounding _creak_ that echoed throughout the large room.

" _Shh!_ " Mena hissed.

Kyrin clutched the Sword of Martin tight. "Sorry. C'mon."

The sounds grew louder as the pair rounded the abbey's south side. They ran a few more steps before Kyrin stopped dead in his tracks. "Look, there!" he gestured, pointing across the lawn. The wicker gate to the South Wall was ajar, and a large, shadowy mass lay writhing on the ground.

"Be careful," Mena warned, as they cautiously approached the struggling form with their weapons drawn. As they got closer Kyrin realized that the cursing, kicking blob on the ground was not one creature, but several. Four guardsmice were trying to subdue a much larger individual, who seemed oblivious to their attempts to pacify him.

Kyrin leveled the Sword of Martin at the mysterious intruder. "Show your face, thief!"

The creature seemed to obey his command, as it got up with ease. Kyrin took a fearful step back as the thing reared up to its full height, towering head and shoulders over him. The guards clung on to their would-be captive desperately, crying out in alarm as they were lifted clean off the ground.

Mena jumped in front of her boyfriend, already twirling her loaded sling. "Let them go!" she yelled.

To everybeast's surprise, the tall creature spoke, his quirky speech cutting above the panicked yells of the guards still clinging to him. "On the contrary, madam, it seems that these cheeky blighters need to let _me_ go, eh, wot wot?"

Kyrin did not lower his blade. "Step forth so we can see you!"

The figure stepped into the torchlight. He removed his bandana, revealing a pair of very long ears. It was a hare! Peering over Mena's shoulder, the creature held up a jovial paw in greeting. "Evenin', Kyrin old lad! It's been far too long!"

Mena stopped twirling her sling. Puzzled, she looked back at her boyfriend. "Kyrin, do you two… _know_ each other?"

Kyrin stepped forward, sword still in paw. "I don't believe we've met, sir, but I must ask that you state your business here."

The hare chuckled. "Oh, silly me. Been away from this place for four bloomin' seasons then waltzing in on a warm summer night thinking anybeast would jolly well remember me! Where are my manners?" He took a deep bow, throwing one of the guards over his shoulder in the process. "Sergeant Thornberry Chambeleau McWarthorn, 33rd Reconnaissance Regiment, at your service! I was on the expedition with your father to find you when you ran away from here!"

There was a noise behind Kyrin as his family, Abbot Cyrus, and several others came running, still wearing their nightclothes. Raising his lantern, Tam recognized the hare straightaway, and rushed forth to greet him. "Private Thorn, is that you? Haha, I'd recognize that boisterous bellow of yours a forest away! How are ye, ye long-eared scamp?"

The remaining guardsmice fell to the ground in an exhausted heap. Thorn threw back his head and laughed. "That's _Sergeant_ Thorn to you, sah! You might've noticed the insignia!" He pointed to an elaborate golden patch on his left sleeve. "Recently got the promotion suppressin' some vermin on the coastline, doncha know!" The two old friends hugged as he continued. "Your son barely remembers me, ha! Called me a bally thief just now!"

A relieved laugh escaped Kyrin as he and Mena helped the guards up. "I'm sorry, I thought you were breaking in!"

Thorn gave him a cheeky wink, ruffling the young warrior's headfur. "All's forgiven, lad. I'd bally well arrest myself too if I caught me sneakin' around your home at this time of night! Although I must say that wasn't much of a break-in – your guards left the door unlocked! Bad form, I must say…"

As the sergeant rambled on about the dangers of not locking one's gates, Tam took his son aside. "Did you bring Martin's sword up to your room again?"

Kyrin nodded.

"I keep telling you to put it back in the Great Hall after you train with it!"

The young squirrel started to protest. "But a warrior never parts with his sword…"

"It's not your sword yet. Give it to me."

His face burning, Kyrin mumbled an apology as he sheathed the blade, handing it over to Tam, who went inside to hang the weapon under the tapestry where it belonged.

Abbot Cyrus bowed. "You are always welcome at Redwall, Sergeant Thorn. I apologize on behalf of our guards, who accosted you in such a manner. Please, do come in, and help yourself to a late dinner. I do regret that they're leftovers from last night's feast – "

But Thorn didn't seem to mind. "Feast, did you say? Just what any hungry hare needs, and I'm abso-bally-flippin'-lutely starvin'! Lead on, abbot old thing, lead on!"

* * *

Candles were lit in Cavern Hole, the cozy cove underneath the Great Hall, so as not to disturb the rest of the slumbering abbey. Leftovers from the Nameday Feast were spread across a medium-sized table. Kyrin and the others present watched in amazement as the famished hare tore through cakes, turnovers, several flagons of ale, and the remainder of a deeper'n'ever pie.

" _Mmf!_ I say! This is absolutely top hole, wot! _Scrunch!_ Haven't eaten in three days! _Gulp!_ Ah, yes, that ale really hits the bally spot there, doesn't it? _Glomp! Glug!_ "

Abbot Cyrus patiently waited for Thorn to finish. After what seemed like an eternity, the old hedgehog spoke. "What brings you to Redwall Abbey at this hour, my friend?"

Thorn belched rather rudely. "I say, that was a big one, wasn't it, old chap? Anyway, what were we talking about? Ah, right, everybeast gather 'round…"

Everybeast crowded around the table as the Sergeant began his tale.

"Several weeks ago, we – that's my squad an' I – were on patrol duty around Salamandastron, when we came across this old mouse lying face down on the beach. Poor blighter looked little more than a bally skeleton. His skiff was nearby. Its sail was more tattered than the old Colonel's britches – haha, you'd have to see for yourselves to understand, eh, wot..."

"Any idea where he came from, Sergeant?" Tam asked.

The hare sipped his ale thoughtfully. "We suspect the creature may have sailed in from the Western Sea."

"There's nothing out there!" Kyrin blurted out, remembering his geography lessons.

Cyrus' normally kind features were etched with concern. "What would compel somebeast to try and cross the Western Sea in something as small as a mere skiff?"

Thorn refilled his flagon to the brim. "That's we're trying to find out, sah. Anyway, we brought him inside mountain as quickly as possible, and that's when things got strange."

Kyrin and Mena exchanged glances as Thorn, now solemn for the most part, continued:

"Now, this chap was clearly not right in the head – didn't talk, barely ate…would just sit in his bally room day an' night staring at the old wall. But every now and then the cadets passing by his room would hear him utter something: 'Werithor!'"

A murmur swept through the crowd. Tam looked at his daughter. "Any idea what this is, Melanda?"

The recorder shook her head. "I don't ever recall coming across it in the archives, and I'm pretty sure I've read every scroll in this abbey!"

"We didn't know what it is either, m'gel," Thorn said, "until three days ago when we had a bally breakthrough."

The intrigued Redwallers leaned in as the hare produced a battered scroll, which he unfurled on the table.

"I'll never forget it. One of the cadets comes burstin' through the Mess Hall during lunch. Nobeast interrupts a hare when he's eating, so we knew it was important. Said it was about the old mouse. We ran up to his room as fast as we could on a half-empty stomach. Old creature's eyes were rolled completely back in his head. He was sittin' up straighter than a spear, clearly in a trance, reciting a couple of lines over and over. Our scribes managed to write everything down."

Clearing his throat, Thorn read from the parchment:

 _Listen close, and heed my call_

 _Sons and daughters of Redwall!_

 _A journey far from home awaits_

 _That shall unravel many fates_

 _Blood will spill upon both shores_

 _And stain the sands forevermore_

 _The tale resolves across the waves_

 _Lest hearth and home become your grave._

Thorn paused for a second, looking around at the shocked faces of the Redwallers. "The chaps at Salamandastron believe Werithor is a place, and that this mouse was enslaved there."

Mena peered at the message, pointing to a small drawing toward the bottom of the page. "What's that?"

The hare's voice was grim. "Probably something best left alone." He held up the parchment so everybeast could see the chilling sketch of the skull-and-trident.

"We found it tattooed on the blighter's paw," Thorn explained. "It looks like a crest of some sort."

Alarm bells were going off in Tam's head. "We're on to something, old friend. This Werithor place sounds big an' dangerous."

"Indeed, sah," mused the sergeant, fingering his insignia. "May have something to do with those vermin we encountered near the coastline, too."

Cyrus bowed graciously. "Thank you for relaying this information. Is there any more?"

"Ah, yes! There is one more thing," said Thorn, swigging his drink. "After our refugee finished reciting the first poem, he went on to a second, after which he fell unconscious and couldn't be woken up." The hare cleared his throat and read:

 _I call upon, at my behest_

 _Travelers four, to take this quest:_

 _A warrior young, who wields my Sword_

 _Always wanting to explore_

 _A healer, studying the art_

 _To temper flame with gentle heart_

 _Who could forget the loyal friend?_

 _On his jokes and company we depend_

 _Our fourth will keep your souls in line_

 _With logic, reason, and thoughtful mind._

 _But before you sail the ocean blue_

 _A kingdom of green shall come to you._

Thorn looked up again. "I know you all believe in that ghost mouse; Marby wotsisname, was it? I can't remember…"

"Martin the Warrior," whispered Kyrin, awestruck. "Martin the Warrior spoke through this mouse. He's calling on me to fulfill a quest."

The Abbot's jaw was set. "Martin sent that poor creature to warn us. Whatever lies across that ocean poses an immediate threat to our abbey. Kyrin, you must heed Martin's message. Go with Sergeant Thorn to Salamandastron. Find out what we're dealing with."

"Yes, Father Abbot," Kyrin replied, rather quickly.

"What's goin' on?"

Kyrin turned to see Gry and Firulan walking into Cavern Hole. Firulan yawned loudly. "Heard scufflin' earlier, didn't want t' get out o' bed just yet, but now I'm here. Wot's everybeast talkin' about?"

Kyrin strode over to his friends, putting his arms on their shoulders. "Perfect timing, mates. Pack your bags, we're going to Salamandastron!"

Firulan was awake in an instant. "Salamandastron? Y'mean the badger fortress?" He noticed Thorn. "Who's this?"

Thorn rolled up the parchment. "I'll fill you in on the details later, m'lad, but right now we have to go. Lady Melesme will be expectin' us. Maybe you can talk to our guest a bit more; squeeze some more information out of him."

Gry turned to the sergeant. "When do we leave?"

The hare, whose waistline seemed to have expanded, struggled to rise. "As soon as… _uuf_ …we're ready!"

Firulan beamed. "I'll get my blades! See ye upstairs, Kyrin!" With that, the mouse ran out of the room.

Mena looked at Kyrin, puzzled. "I thought you had to stay at Redwall and train."

"Unless Martin the Warrior himself comes calling," Kyrin corrected her, looking over at Tam as he quoted his father's words. The Border Warrior gave a nod.

The squirrelmaid's grin was wide. "Let me go get changed and pack a few herbs. I'll meet you in the Great Hall."

Gry, who was already dressed, patted the large bung mallet dangling from his waistband. "I've got all I need. Let's get movin'."

Thorn let out another noisy belch. "Excellent! We'll set out shortly. I expect we'll be halfway across the dunes by nightfall!"

* * *

It was still dark outside as the expedition gathered at the entrance of the Great Hall. Tam frowned as Kyrin took down the Sword of Martin from its hangers. "I'd rather you not bring that. You can take my claymore instead."

Kyrin was still indignant over the older squirrel's words from earlier. "Martin chose me, father. I'm taking his sword."

Tam sighed. "I did say you could leave if Martin called on ye. But just so ye know, I don't approve of any of this."

Kyrin's voice was impassive as he strapped the fabled blade to his back. "I understand."

Sister Armel pulled her son into a hug. "Be safe."

"I will, mother," Kyrin promised her.

"And come back with lots of stories," joked Melanda, ruffling his headfur once again.

While Kyrin's family said their goodbyes, Abbot Cyrus passed Thorn several canteens along with a haversack of provisions. "Here are the remaining leftovers from last night's feast, Sergeant. It should last the five of you until you reach Salamandastron."

Thorn made an elegant leg. "Superior foodstuff, sah! We shall dine spiffingly, wot wot!" He tossed each traveler a canteen, as well as a blueberry scone apiece from the haversack. "Better have some food before we leave; we won't be stopping until late afternoon at the earliest. The old Badger Lady's expecting us at the mountain, so we better get there sharpish!"

Abbot Cyrus turned to the four friends nibbling on their rations. "Good luck on your journey. May Martin assist you all in getting to the bottom of this mystery."

"Yes, yes," rushed Thorn. "Now, are we ready to march?"

Kyrin, Mena, Firulan, and Gry nodded in unison.

The sergeant tied his bandana back over his head. "Good, then let's move out!"

The guards opened the main gates, and the five travelers departed Redwall Abbey under cover of darkness, disappearing into the night.

Tam watched them go, stony-faced. Armel touched his arm gently. "I know what you're thinking."

The Border Warrior did not look at his mate. "Do you now?"

"Kyrin's young, Tam. He could use the experience. He hasn't seen the outside world in four seasons."

Tam's expression remained grave. "That's what I'm afraid of!"


End file.
